On the final day of May, within the walls of Babylon, Alexander attended a dinner given by one of his trusted Companions. He pledged a toast, drank a large cup of undiluted wine, then shrieked aloud as if smitten by a violent blow. He was quickly taken to bed where a fever came, but he continued to play dice, plan with his generals, and make the proper sacrifices. On the fourth day he complained of weariness and some of his Companions noticed a lack of his normal energy. He lay quiet for several more days, sleeping in the bathhouse for coolness. Despite his weakened condition, Alexander sent word to the infantry to be ready to march in four days and for the fleet to sail in five. His plans to move west and take Arabia were about to unfold. On June 6, feeling weaker, he passed his ring to Perdiccas so the proper administration of the government could continue. This caused a panic. His troops feared he’d died and, to calm their unease, Alexander allowed them to file past his bed. He greeted each one with a smile. When the last man left he whispered, “After my death, where will you find a king who deserves such men?” He commanded that, after his death, his body should be taken to the Temple of Ammon in Egypt. But none of the Companions wanted to hear such fatalism. His condition worsened until, on June 9, his Companions asked, “To whom do you leave your kingdom?” Ptolemy said he heard, “to the brightest.” Seleucus said, “to the righteous.” Peithon recalls, “to the strongest.” A great debate ensued as to who was right. Early during the morning of the next day, in the thirty-third year of life, twelve years and eight months into his reign, Alexander III of Macedonia died.
“People still debate those last words,” she said.
“And why is it so important?” Malone asked.
“It’s what he left behind,” Thorvaldsen said. “His kingdom, with no rightful heir.”
“And that has something to do with elephant medallions?”
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “I bought that museum knowing someone would destroy it. Cassiopeia and I have been waiting for that to happen.”
She said, “We had to stay a step ahead of whoever is after the medallions.”
“Seems like they won. They have the thing.”
Thorvaldsen cast her a look, then the older man stared at Malone and said, “Not exactly.”
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
NINE
VIKTOR RELAXED ONLY WHEN THE DOOR TO THE HOTEL ROOM was closed and locked. They were across Copenhagen, near Nyhavn, where boisterous waterfront cafés catered to rowdy patrons. He sat at the desk and switched on a lamp as Rafael assumed a window position, which overlooked the street four stories below.
He now possessed the fifth medallion.
The first four had been disappointments. One was a forgery, the other three in poor condition. Six months ago he knew little about elephant medallions. Now he considered himself quite proficient in their provenance.
“We should be fine,” he said to Rafael. “Calm down. No one followed us.”
“I’ll keep watch to be sure.”
He knew Rafael was trying to make amends for overreacting in the museum, so he said, “It’s okay.”
“He should have died.”
“It’s better he didn’t. At least we know what we’re facing.”
He unzipped a leather case and removed a stereomicroscope and digital scale.
He laid the coin on the desk. They’d found it displayed in one of the museum cases, correctly noted as an “Elephant Medallion (Alexander the Great), a decadrachm, circa second century BCE.”
He first measured its width. Thirty-five millimeters. About right. He flicked on the electronic scales and checked its weight. Forty point seventy-four grams. Correct, too.
With a magnifying glass he examined the image on one face—a warrior in regal splendor, complete with plumed helmet, neck guard, breastplate, and a calvary cloak that fell to his knees.
He was pleased. An obvious flaw in the forgeries was the cloak, which in the false medallions hung to the ankles. For centuries, trade in fake Greek coins had flourished and clever forgers had become adept at fooling both the anxious and the willing.
Luckily, he was neither.
The first known elephant medallion had surfaced when it was donated to the British Museum in 1887. It came from somewhere in central Asia . A second appeared in 1926, from Iran. A third was discovered in 1959. A fourth in 1964. Then, in 1973, four more were found near the ruins of Babylon. Eight in all that had made the rounds through museums and private collectors. Not all that valuable, considering the variety of Hellenistic art and the thousands of coins available, but nonetheless collectible.
He returned to his examination.
The clean-shaven, youthful warrior grasped a sarissa in his left hand topped by a leaf-shaped point. His right hand held a bolt of lightning. Above him loomed a flying Nike, the winged goddess of victory. To the warrior’s left, the die cutter had left a curious monogram.
Whether it was BA or BAB, and what the letters represented Viktor did not know. But an authentic medallion should show that odd symbol.
All seemed in order. Nothing added or missing.
He flipped the coin over.
Its edges were grossly distorted, the pewter-colored patina worn smooth as if by running water. Time was slowly dissolving the delicate engraving on both sides. Amazing, really, that any of them had managed to survive.
“All quiet?” he asked Rafael, who still stood near the window.
“Don’t patronize me.”
He glanced up. “I actually want to know.”
“I can’t seem to get it right.”
He caught the defeatism. “You saw someone coming to the museum door. You reacted. That’s all.”
“It was foolish. Killing attracts too much attention.”